“There’s nothing either of us can really do till I know more precisely what’s happening. I simply wanted to tell you myself, so you wouldn’t panic when you heard the news or saw the papers. I’ll ring you later today, all right?”
“All right,” Cordelia sighed. “But look after yourself, please. Don’t take any chances with a murderer on the loose. I love you, don’t forget that.”
“I love you too,” Lindsay replied. She put the phone down and walked back to the camp. She opened the door to the van, forgetting momentarily about the police. The bulky presence of two uniformed men searching the van startled her.
“What the hell are you doing?” she demanded angrily.
“We’ll be as quick as we can,” said the older of the two, a freckle-faced, grey-haired man with broad shoulders and a paunch. “We have a warrant. Your friend said it was all right,” he added, nodding towards Jane.
“I’d forgotten you’d be doing this.” Lindsay sighed as she collapsed into the comfortable armchair-cum-driver’s seat.
True to the constable’s word, they departed in about fifteen minutes with a bundle of clothing. Lindsay poured a large whisky for Jane and herself.
“I could do without another night like this,” Lindsay said. “I don’t know what it is about my friends that seems to attract murder.”
Jane looked puzzled. “You mean this happens often?”
“Not exactly often. About two years ago, a friend of mine was arrested for a murder she didn’t commit. Cordelia and I happened to be on the spot and got roped in to do the Sam Spade bit. That’s when the two of us got together-a mutual fascination for being nosey parkers.”
“Well, I hate to say it, but I’m glad you’ve had the experience. I think you could easily find yourself going through the same routine for Deborah.”
Lindsay shook her head. “Different kettle of fish. They’ve not even arrested Debs, never mind charged her. I’m pretty sure they don’t have much to go on. It’s my guess that Debs will be back here by lunchtime tomorrow if Judith’s got anything to do with it. Let’s face it, we all know Debs is innocent, and I’m sure the police will find a more likely suspect before the day’s out. They’ve just pulled her in to make it look good to anyone who’s got their beady eyes on them. Now I’m going to bed, if you’ll excuse me.”
In spite of Lindsay’s exhaustion she did not fall asleep at once. Crabtree’s murder had set her thoughts racing in circles. Who had killed him? And why? Was it anything to do with the peace camp, or was Debs’ connection with him purely coincidental? And what was going to happen to Debs? Lindsay hated being in a position where she didn’t know enough to form reasonable theories, and she tossed and turned in Debs’ bed as she tried to switch off her brain. Finally she drifted into a deep and dreamless sleep, which left her feeling neither rested nor refreshed when she awoke after nine.
After a quick shower, she emerged into a mild spring day with cotton-wool clouds scudding across the sky to find the camp apparently deserted. Puzzled, Lindsay glanced over at the big bender used for meetings; it seemed that was where the women had gathered. She decided to take advantage of the quiet spell by phoning the office and checking the current situation with the police.
Her first call was to the police HQ in Fordham. She asked for Rigano and was surprised to be put straight through to him. “Superintendent Rigano? Lindsay Gordon here, Daily Clarion. We met last night at Brownlow…”
“I remember. You were quick off the mark. It’s been hard to get away from your colleagues this morning. Now, what can I do for you?”
“I wondered where you were up to. Any imminent arrest?”
“You mean, are we going to charge your friend? The answer is, not at the moment. Off the record, we’ll be letting her go later this morning. That’s not to say I’m convinced of her innocence. But I can’t go any further till I’ve got forensics. So you can say that at present good old Superintendent Rigano is following several lines of enquiry, but that the woman we have been interviewing is being released pending the outcome of those enquiries. Okay?”
“Fine. Do you mind if I drop in on you later today?”
“Please yourself,” he said. “If I’m in, I’ll see you. But I don’t know what my movements will be later, so if you want to take a chance on missing me, feel free.”
Lindsay put the phone down, thoughtful. Her experience with the police during the Paddy Callaghan case had fueled her ingrained mistrust of their intelligence and integrity. But in her brief encounter with Rigano she had felt a certain rapport which had not been dispelled by their telephone conversation. She had surprised herself by her request to call in on him, and now she felt slightly bewildered as to what on earth she would find to discuss with him once Debs was released.
But that was for later. Right now, she had the unpleasant task of talking to Duncan Morris, the Daily Clarion’s news editor and the man responsible for her move to London. She put the call in and waited nervously to be connected to her boss. His voice boomed down the line at her. “Morning, Lindsay,” he began. “I see from the overnight note that you’re back in that nest of pipers. Still, you did a good job last night. We beat everyone else to the draw and that’s the way I want to keep it. It’s of interest for us in terms of the link with the peace camp, okay, so let’s keep that in the front of our minds. What I want from you by noon is a good background piece about the camp, a few quotes from the loony lefties about this man Crabtree and his campaign. I don’t have to spell it out to you.” Lindsay fumed quickly as the venom of his prejudices ran over her. “I also want to be well up on the news angles too. Try for a chat with the widow and family or his colleagues. And try to overcome your natural prejudices and stay close to the cops. Now, what’s the score on all that?”
Lindsay somehow found her tongue. She was aware that she should know better than to be surprised by Duncan ’s about-turn when faced with a strong news story, but she still couldn’t help being a little taken aback that he was now hassling her for a background piece on the camp. She stammered, “The cops are releasing the woman they held for questioning. She’s Deborah Patterson, the woman charged with assaulting him last month. I don’t know what the legal implications are as yet-I should imagine that with his death the prosecution case automatically falls, but whether that releases us immediately from sub judice rules, I don’t know.
“As far as the news feature’s concerned, no problem. Also, I’m hoping to see the copper in charge of the case again this afternoon, so I can let you have whatever he says. I’ll try the family but I don’t hold out much hope. They’re a bit too well clued-up about Her Majesty’s gutter press to fall for the standard lines. But leave it with me.”
“Fine. Normally on one this big, I’d send someone down to help you out, but you’re the expert when it comes to the lunatic fringe, so I’ll leave you to it.” Patronising shit, she thought, as he carried on. “We’ve got a local snapper lined up, so if you’ve got any potential pics, speak to the picture desk. Don’t fall down on this one, Lindsay. File by noon so I can see the copy before I go into morning conference. And get a good exclusive chat with this woman they’re releasing. If the lawyers say we can’t use it, we can always kill it. Speak to you later.”
The phone went dead. “Just what I love most,” Lindsay muttered. “Writing for the wastepaper bin.” She walked back to the van and made herself some coffee and toast before she sat down to put her feature together. She had only written a few paragraphs when there was a knock at the van door.
“Come in,” she called. Jane entered, followed by Willow and another woman whom Lindsay knew only by sight.
“The very people I wanted to see,” she exclaimed. “My news desk has said I can do a piece about the camp reaction to Crabtree’s campaign. So I need some quotes from you about how you are here for peace and, while you didn’t have any sympathy for his organisation, you wouldn’t ever have stooped to violence, etc., etc. Is that all right?”
Willow grinned. “We’ll have to see about that,” she replied. “But first, we’ve got something to ask you. We’ve just had a meeting to discuss this business. We’ve decided we need to safeguard our interests. Already there have been reporters round here, and we don’t like the attitude they’ve been taking. That leaves us with a bit of a problem. We need someone who can help us deal with the situation. It’s got to be someone who understands why none of us could have done this, but who also knows the way the system works. It looks like you’re the only one who fits the bill.”
The third woman chimed in. “It wasn’t a unanimous decision to ask you. Not by a long chalk. But we’re stuck. Personally, I don’t feel entirely happy about trusting someone who works for a paper like the Clarion, but we don’t
